


Caring is Complicated

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Mycroft Holmes has a daughter, Run Away, also an ex-husband, run awayyy, split families are so complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a lot more difficult to let people believe your brother is dead when one of those people is your six year old daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*********

The door opened in the middle of their chat, and Mycroft turned with his pleasant expression firmly in place.  ”Eleanor Ashbury-Holmes, it is past your bedtime.”

“I had a nightmare,” Eleanor said, her expression and manner perfectly calm.  She was wearing her pink fuzzy dressing gown over her pink flannel pyjamas, and carrying her favourite stuffed platypus—a gift from her uncle Sherlock.  ”Hello, Uncle Sherlock.”

“Hello, Eleanor,” Sherlock said, and turned around to stare out the window.

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest.  ”A nightmare, hm?  What about?”

“The sun exploding,” Eleanor replied promptly.  She scraped her pink fuzzy bunny slipper along the carpet.  ”It was very scary, Papa.  I was all alone in my room, and then we all burned to death, and I never had a chance to say goodbye to you.”

Sherlock made a strangled sort of noise, and Mycroft sighed.  ”I think I ought to monitor your reading a bit more closely.”

“It was on the telly at Daddy’s house,” Eleanor said quickly.

“Then I’ll tell him to get you a nanny,” Mycroft countered.

“I would be just fine if you would tuck me in properly,” Eleanor said, glaring at him.  ”You only kissed me twice.  It’s no wonder I had a nightmare.”

“A terrible injustice,” Sherlock agreed.

Mycroft shot a glare his way before turning back to Eleanor.  ”Very well, Miss Ashbury-Holmes.  Let’s tuck you in properly.”

“Good night, Uncle Sherlock!” Eleanor called out, before running to Mycroft and holding up her arms expectantly.

Mycroft lifted her, helping her to settle herself comfortably with her legs around his waist.  ”You’re getting to be too big for carrying,” he said, taking a moment to smooth down her unruly red curls.

Eleanor lay her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly.  ”When I’m seven, I won’t make you carry me anymore.”

“Mm,” Mycroft said.  She’d said the same last year, substituting six for seven.  

After tucking her in, and kissing her ten times—ten being the minimum required to keep the sun from exploding—Mycroft returned to the study, more worried than before.

“Caring is not an advantage, hm?” Sherlock said nastily as he walked in.

“This is the only thing you can think of?” Mycroft asked wearily.  ”Eleanor will take it hard.”

“Tell her the truth,” Sherlock suggested, toying with the curtain cord.  ”She can keep a secret.  I wouldn’t be doing this if I could see another way.”

Mycroft knew it.  ”You’re trusting a six year old with your life.”

“I’m trusting my niece with my life,” Sherlock said sharply.  ”That’s different.”  There was a strange pride in his voice when he added, “She’s a Holmes.”

*********

Eleanor’s little face was pale and drawn, her freckles standing out sharply. She stood very still in her black dress, staring fixedly at the closed casket.

Mycroft kept her cold little hand in his, wishing he could have spared her this.

Charles sat on her other side, holding her other hand, sending worried looks over her head at Mycroft. Not only for her sake; he knew how much Sherlock’s suicide must be affecting Mycroft.

“Papa,” Eleanor whispered. “You’re holding too tight.”

“I apologise,” Mycroft said automatically, releasing her hand. Eleanor immediately grabbed it back.

There was an awful realisation in John’s Watson face when he saw them, his incredulous eyes focusing for a moment on Eleanor. Mycroft tried to curb the rising tide of anger and resentment. If it weren’t for the penetration of his own network, Mycroft would have ensured Eleanor and Charles were kept completely out of this.

“Take her,” Mycroft whispered to Charles, who nodded once, his fine dark hair falling over his forehead. A helpless wave of affection stole through him; there had been many nights he’d wished they’d found a way to make it work, and he knew that tonight would join their ranks.

Charles and Eleanor meandered off into the sunshine while Mycroft greeted the few friends who had come to the funeral. He accepted their sympathies with a forced smile, trying to feel relieved that he was lying to less than twenty people. 

Greg Lestrade was the last to shake his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, meeting Mycroft’s gaze squarely. It was a brave thing to do, and Mycroft felt very tired, suddenly, so tired that he swayed. “Whoa, Mycroft, hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, blinking rapidly and feeling the dizziness dissipate. Greg led him to a pew and helped him sit, chewing on his lip worriedly. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, of course--” Greg was cut off when Eleanor shouted from the door.

“Papa! Are you okay?”

Mycroft straightened and was able to catch her when she flung herself bodily at him, helping her to sit comfortably on his lap. “I’m fine. I was dizzy for a moment, and Greg helped me.”

Eleanor sat up, grabbing Mycroft’s face with both hands and scrutinising his features. “You’re tired,” she proclaimed, and scrambled to her knees--Mycroft wincing only slightly as they pressed into his thighs--to kiss him on the forehead. “We should go home. Daddy can drive.”

“Suggestions, not orders, Eleanor,” Charles reminded gently. He held out his hand to Greg. “Charles Ashbury.”

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg answered, shaking his hand. He looked between Charles and Eleanor, and then to Mycroft. “Sorry, I didn’t realise...” He stopped and laughed, running his hand through his hair.

“I’ll drive myself,” Mycroft said, cutting the introduction short. “Eleanor, you are to go home with your Daddy tonight--”

“I want to go home with you,” Eleanor said quickly, getting a good grip on his jacket. She’d slid her knees to the side so that they weren’t digging into Mycroft’s thighs any longer, but now she clamped her legs tight. “Let me come home with you.”

Mycroft didn’t look at Charles, but he knew he was smiling sheepishly at Greg. His skin prickled with embarrassment. “Eleanor--”

“I’ll scream,” she informed him, very seriously. “I’ll make everyone stare. I’ll say I’m afraid you’re going to die, too.”

Greg made a noise, and Mycroft remembered, apropos of nothing, that he and his wife had never had children.

“What did we say about manipulation?” Mycroft asked.

Eleanor was stern. “I am afraid, Papa. I want to keep an eye on you.”

“I will be fine,” Mycroft said, and raised both eyebrows when she started to argue. Eleanor subsided, but glared up at him. “This is your Daddy’s weekend--Eleanor Ashbury-Holmes, don’t.”

Eleanor’s chest was hitching, and she started to make tiny gulping sounds as her eyes filled with tears. “Please?” she managed to choke out, before burying her little face in Mycroft’s shirt and wailing.

Mycroft put his arms around her small, shaking body and looked up at Charles, who was staring helplessly. “I think perhaps I ought to take her tonight,” he said wearily.

“I can drive you,” Charles offered, reaching out hesitantly to pet Eleanor’s back. She gave a little shriek and climbed up Mycroft’s torso, crying into his neck now. Mycroft winced as she wiped snot along his collar.

“We’ll see you in the morning, for breakfast?” Mycroft suggested, standing up. Eleanor’s legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, and she was breathing loudly in his ear. “The Belvedere--”

“Balcon!” Eleanor shouted, and then wiped her nose on his shoulder. Mycroft rubbed her back soothingly.

“At ten,” Charles said, and smiled nervously at him. “See you then, Eleanor.” He put his hand on her back again and Eleanor shivered dramatically, digging her nails into Mycroft’s jacket. Mycroft nodded to Charles and he stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets. “Mycroft, I’m really... I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, and stared at far wall rather than watch him go.

“Are you sure you can drive?” Greg asked when Charles had left, and Eleanor started in Mycroft’s arms. “You were a bit pale there.”

Eleanor turned her head slowly to stare at Greg, her shoulders hunched and her eyes narrowed.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft said, a bit testily. “Eleanor, I’m going to set you down, and you will introduce yourself properly. Understood? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, one of your Uncle Sherlock’s friends.”

Eleanor looked back at him quickly and then nodded, standing in a dainty first position when Mycroft set her down. “Hello, Detective Inspector--” She stopped, staring fiercely at the floor. “Lester?”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft corrected, as Greg knelt and held out his hand to shake hers.

“Greg is fine,” he said, smiling at her. Eleanor looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then smiled shyly and shook his hand. “What do I call you?”

“I’m Eleanor,” she said, faltering and looking up at Mycroft. “Um. This is my papa. Do you know him?”

“I do,” Greg said gravely, standing up again. 

“Okay,” Eleanor said, and grabbed Mycroft’s hand, moving to stand behind him. “Papa, can we go?”

There were a few men waiting respectfully at the door, waiting to take the casket. Mycroft had refused a ceremony at the graveside, hadn’t wanted to watch them put it in the ground. That would be a little too much.

He was feeling dizzy again.

“Papa?”

“Right,” Greg said, and Mycroft blinked, looking down at his elbow--Greg’s hand was on it, steering him around and away. “You’re going to let me drive.”

*********


	2. Chapter 2

*********

Eleanor picked at her bowl of strawberries, swinging her feet from where she sat on the countertop. Mycroft was typing out a few instructions to Anthea when she finally spoke. “Papa, is Uncle Sherlock in heaven?”

She sounded confused, more than anything. It was impossible. It was absolutely insupportable. Mycroft put the phone down, trying to plan out this conversation. “No, Eleanor.”

“Good,” she said, and her relief made Mycroft look up sharply. “He’d be so bored.”

Mycroft let out a sharp, pained laugh, pressing his hand to his mouth, and Eleanor jumped down from the counter, scattering strawberries as the bowl thumped harmlessly to the floor. “Papa? I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” Mycroft said, picking her up. Eleanor stared carefully into his face before smiling back at him, satisfaction clear in her bright eyes. “What are you so pleased about, moppet?”

“He told you, too,” she said, her grin growing wider.

Mycroft was frozen for one bright, heady moment, completely floored--not only by his brother’s daring, but by Eleanor’s demeanor. “Your uncle is a menace,” he said.

“You’re a good actor, Papa,” Eleanor said, trying to curl his hair around her fingers. “I was worried about you. I thought he didn’t tell you.”

“Your Uncle Sherlock can’t fool me,” Mycroft said, grinning back at her. “Not for long, anyway. But you, my darling, you were brilliant.”

Eleanor laughed and hugged him tight. “Papa, since we’re not sad anymore, can we have ice cream?”

“Absolutely,” Mycroft said, and swung her to the floor. She skipped across the refrigerator while Mycroft knelt to pick up her strawberries, relief still sending a painful warmth through his veins.

“Uncle Sherlock said he can’t send me postcards, but we can make a map!” Eleanor told him, grabbing the vanilla and the pistachio ice cream from the freezer. “He said I can learn about the places he goes. Then I can ask him things when he comes home.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mycroft said, setting the restored bowl of strawberries on the counter. He dampened a wash cloth to wash the floor as Eleanor clambered onto the counter to get into the cabinet that held the bowls. 

“He said I have to keep it a secret though, very secret, super secret,” Eleanor added. “That’s why I didn’t know if I should tell you.”

Mycroft finished washing the floor and tossed the cloth into the sink, and lifted her down from the countertop. “Eleanor, there’s nothing you should keep secret from me, remember? There are no secrets between children and parents.”

“But I can’t tell Daddy,” Eleanor said, looking up at him with wide, serious eyes.

Mycroft smiled, his mind racing frantically. “Well, no, but--”

“It’s okay, because Daddy isn’t a Holmes,” Eleanor said complacently, and took the bowls to the table where the ice cream was waiting.

Mycroft stared after her, trying not to wince. “No, darling, it’s.” He paused, and Eleanor looked back at him curiously. Mycroft sighed and laced his fingers together. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from your daddy, either. But this one is okay only because it’s not a forever secret. We will tell him when Sherlock is done with his... duties. It’s more like a surprise than a secret.”

“Yes, Papa,” Eleanor said obediently. “Can we have ice cream now?”

*********

“Sir.”

“Yes, Anthea?” Mycroft said, looking up from his work. Her lips were pressed tight and her brow furrowed, and such expressiveness from her could mean one of very few things--and only one was remotely likely at the present moment. “Really?”

“He’s outside,” she said, not turning. Asking him if he wished to ignore John Watson.

Mycroft did, but if John was willing to come to the Diogenes, he was determined. “Very well. Have him come in.”

He closed the file he was working on and set a few things in order on his desk; Anthea left and John Watson walked in moments later, the door closing behind him. “Mycroft,” he said, and waited.

Mycroft tried not to roll his eyes. “Take a seat, John,” he said tiredly, folding his hands. “Let’s not stand on ceremony.”

He knew John blamed him. That was just one part of the whole scheme, meaning to separate John from the Holmes brothers entirely for his safety. He shouldn’t be here, struggling to find words.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” John said finally, and Mycroft tried not to twitch.

“I’m not the sort of man to share photos and invite colleagues to her dance recitals,” he said shortly.

“She dances?”

“Don’t be polite,” Mycroft snapped. “Or curious. My daughter is none of your concern.”

“So you couldn’t mention, in passing, that you distanced yourself from Sherlock in order to protect her?” John asked, his voice rough.

Mycroft closed his eyes. “John. May I be blunt with you?”

“Please,” John said, smiling in his more dangerous fashion.

“I am a respectable person,” Mycroft began.

“Right,” John said, his smile growing.

“What is it you think I do?” Mycroft demanded, standing up. “Because I hate to dispel any notions you might have, but I work with officials on every level, in multiple nations, and I am well-known, John. My name, my history, and my family. My ex-husband is a politician, for God’s sake!”

He stopped for a moment, gauging John’s reaction. Nothing much yet, but he was taking it in. Mycroft continued. “Sherlock was invisible in a way I haven’t been for a decade, and he could search for the Bruce Partington Plans without alerting anyone to their absence, he could make an attempt on Ms. Adler’s phone without causing entire nations to wonder why it was important. I can’t do any of these things.”

“You can give his life story to a psychotic criminal mastermind,” John challenged.

“Mr. Moriarty’s plans had already expanded to include those he could connect to Sherlock, as you well know.” Mycroft watched John’s eyes flicker at that. “Neither of us wanted that monster’s attention on Eleanor, and moreover, I don’t want it there now.”

“Moriarty is gone,” John said. “As is your brother.”

“And do you suppose there is no one left to avenge him?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or, perhaps, no one left to wonder if his key--the one that surrounded your flat with assassins--if that was real? If, perhaps, the flatmate that survived Sherlock Holmes still has it?”

John’s expression didn’t change, though he stood taller. “That’s ridiculous.”

“For the sake of my daughter, I’m asking you to leave,” Mycroft said quietly. “Do not contact me again.”

John took a step toward the door, but he didn’t turn away from Mycroft. “You’re lying to me, or not telling me something,” he said, and his voice was low but strong. “I’ll leave you alone for now, but.” He paused, and then took two steps closer to Mycroft. “One of these days, for the sake of your brother, you will give me an explanation.”

“On what would you base that deduction?” Mycroft asked, holding his gaze.

“You wouldn’t have brought her to the funeral if you were worried for her life,” John said, and smiled thinly when Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t completely hopeless, Mycroft.”

*********

He wasn’t prepared for the knock at the door. Mycroft stood absolutely still in the kitchen, holding the kettle in mid-air, before it occurred to him that he ought to answer.

If it were a security breach, after all, Anthea would have texted. At the very least.

Once at the door, he was stunned to find Gregory Lestrade waiting on the stoop. “Greg,” he said blankly, holding the door open. “What brings you here?”

“I brought you a--” Greg paused, and looked at the container in his hands. “It was supposed to be a casserole. I’m not sure what it actually turned out to be, though.”

“You’re bringing me food,” Mycroft said, still at a loss. 

“It’s something you do after funerals,” Greg said, watching him carefully. “Sometimes because grieving people don’t eat? But mostly it’s an excuse to check up on them.”

“You’re checking up on me,” Mycroft said, in the same stunned tone, and Greg snorted, pushing forward and forcing Mycroft to retreat, lest he be run over.

“Yes, I am, and it’s a good thing. No one else is, it seems.” Greg shut the door behind himself and tilted his head, watching Mycroft with no small amount of concern. “Is your daughter home?”

“She’s with Charles tonight,” Mycroft said, and shook himself. “Greg. Thank you, but I don’t need--”

“Kitchen’s this way, is it?” Greg said, and darted down the hall. Mycroft stared after him, feeling a bit like what most people felt, he imagined, when dealing with Mycroft.

“Greg,” he called helplessly, but Greg had already disappeared into the further recesses of the house. Mycroft shook his head at the ridiculous nature of the situation, but followed him into the kitchen.

“Tea?” Greg asked, holding out the cup Mycroft had been preparing for himself. “I binned the casserole. Your fridge is full, so I’ll put something edible together, shall I?”

“Can you? I only mean, after the casserole,” Mycroft said, and accepted the tea. He shouldn’t be expected to deal with this just after having to deal with John. Mycroft was accustomed to life being “unfair,” but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I make very delicious sandwiches,” Greg said, and directed Mycroft to sit with a kindly hand at his shoulder. 

*********


	3. Chapter 3

*********

Eleanor was kicking her feet against the side of his chair in comforting sort of rhythm. Mycroft looked down at her, her curls pulled into a pony tail atop her head, chin resting in her hands, as she read the article on Egypt in her children’s encyclopaedia. “Papa, can I learn Egyptish?”

“Egyptian,” Mycroft corrected, “and of course you may, after you have mastered the Romance languages.”

Eleanor looked up at him, frowning. “What Romance languages?”

“French, Spanish, Italian--“

“Those are boring, Papa!” She rolled over onto her back. “Everyone knows those. No one knows Egyptish.”

“Egyptian,” Mycroft said again. “And there are very many Egyptian people who would dispute that.”

“No one in my school,” Eleanor clarified.

“But everyone there speaks French, Spanish, and Italian.”

“Everyone.” She held out her arms as if to encompass the world. “I would be the only one who knew Egyptian!”

“Then who would you talk to?” Mycroft asked sweetly, and had to look away from her big-eyed stare of exasperation so that he didn’t burst into laughter.

“Nia could learn it and then we could have a secret language,” she said, rolling over onto her belly again. “No one would know what we were saying.”

“What sort of secrets does a six year old need to keep from her school mates?”

“Just because I’m not a secret world leader doesn’t mean I don’t have secrets,” she said, in an incredible imitation of her uncle’s petulance. 

Mycroft put his hand up to hide his face, because he couldn’t help but laugh now. “Eleanor Ashbury-Holmes, you mind your demeanour,” he said when he had himself back under control.

“What is Uncle Sherlock doing in Egypt?” she asked, starting to kick her feet again.

“Looking for villains, as I’ve already told you. Doubtless he’ll want to tell you the details himself when he returns.” Mycroft resumed reading his article, though the author’s information was either completely erroneous or sadly behind the times. Still, it was important to know what the general public was thinking on certain issues, if only to discount it.

“Nia’s mother is an actress. She wears a lot of perfume and her face is too tight.”

“Too tight?” Mycroft repeated.

Eleanor sat up and turned to face him. “Like this,” she said, and pulled the skin of her face back toward her ears.

“That’s called a face lift,” Mycroft explained. There were people who wondered how he kept his composure; they should spend some time with a child like Eleanor. “It’s supposed to make her look younger.”

Eleanor’s little nose wrinkled up. “Why does she want to be younger? I want to be twenty five and drive a Prius!”

Mycroft at last burst into laughter, almost brought to tears when Eleanor began to shout furiously, “Papa! Papa, it’s not funny!”

“Of course it isn’t. I’m sorry,” he said, when he could finally stop smiling. Eleanor searched his face carefully for any sign of amusement before she shrugged and went back to her book.

*********

His preoccupation with figuring out who the moles were in his network, and in deciphering the few messages Sherlock was able to leave on message boards scattered across the internet, gave Mycroft a very good cover as a grieving brother. Unfortunately, it did mean that those people who considered themselves his friends were trying to rally ‘round at the most inconvenient time possible.

Charles was the worst offender, though he couldn’t know it. He hadn’t called Mycroft this often when they’d been married. “Mycroft, if you want Eleanor to spend more time with you--“

“It would be best if we didn’t disrupt her schedule,” Mycroft interrupted quickly, because the offer was tempting. “I will see her next weekend, as planned.”

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” Charles asked, without much hope.

Mycroft looked down at his half-consumed blue cheese salad. “No. Thank you, Charles, but--“

“I worry about you,” Charles said, his voice low.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said, and winced at the sharpness of his tone. He added tiredly, “It’s no longer your right.”

After disconnecting, he tucked his phone in his pocket and got up, intending to bin the salad. His appetite was gone, and any trace of concentration with it. He knew what the problem was: Sherlock. Always Sherlock, and his dedication to throwing himself into situations he may or may not be able to extricate himself from.

Mycroft didn’t want to have to truly mourn his brother’s passing.

His phone vibrated with a text, and Mycroft dug it out with a deep sigh. Charles had already called, Harry never bothered with texts and rarely bothered with the phone at all, so it was between Anthea and Greg. 

Greg this time. “Tried my hand at another dish. At home?” the text ran, and Mycroft considered his options. There had been no update from Sherlock regarding Mycroft’s concerns over the relatives of one of his operatives, and without data, he could do nothing more than spin his wheels, as the saying went. On the other hand, Greg cooked about as well as Mycroft did.

Another text: “What would life be if we had no courage?”

Mycroft laughed in surprise, then texted back swiftly. “To attempt anything. V Gogh. Red wine or white?”

The reply took a while, but when it came, Mycroft had to laugh again: “Damned if I know. You wont either. Both?”

Greg was one of only two bright spots to be expected in his day of late. They’d never exactly been friends, but that seemed to be changing. Mycroft wanted to be more circumspect, but his loneliness was wearing on him. The secrets he kept had never been so personal in the past.

It had been two weeks since the funeral, just over a week since the so-called casserole. Greg had checked up on him three more times since then, twice in person after ascertaining that Eleanor wasn’t home. Mycroft gleaned that Greg didn’t want to cut into his time with his daughter, and was restraining a certain amount of curiosity about her.

Mycroft approved of that restraint, and was charmed by its absence when it came to Mycroft’s house and, more specifically, his kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, Greg was nudging him aside with a hip and putting a heavy bowl on the countertop. “Voila! It’s supposed to be curry.”

“Take-away,” Mycroft said immediately, and handed Greg a glass of red before he could argue. “Nothing that’s ‘supposed’ to be curry can be any good.”

“I do try,” Greg protested.

“That makes it worse,” Mycroft said, peering through the cling film. “Much worse.”

Greg went ahead and microwaved it anyway, even as Mycroft called for Italian takeaway. The odour that issued from said microwave drove Mycroft out of the kitchen soon after, and he spent the time Greg took to swear at and clean the kitchen going over a few of his more mundane files. He didn’t have the luxury of avoiding the more everyday sort of problems provided by the public.

“Did you know there’s a sort of bottle cap collection gathered under your microwave?”

Mycroft looked up, frowning. “No, and I can’t help but wonder how you do.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “So I spilled a little curry. I’m cleaning it up.”

“Has it eaten through the countertop?”

With a snort, Greg tossed something to him and disappeared back into the kitchen. Mycroft caught the glinting bit of metal and sighed, loudly. Eleanor was saving beer bottle tops again, bringing them over from her daddy’s house and, because her other caches had been discovered, sticking them under the microwave.

“How many are there?” he called out, getting up to check for himself. Greg had moved the microwave and swept the caps into a pile; there were about twenty.

“She has expensive taste,” Greg commented. “And prefers German beer, apparently.”

“German?” Mycroft repeated, his mind whirling. Charles drank beer occasionally, but he preferred English. His understanding of the situation hit viscerally, and he brought a hand to his mouth in the sudden wave of sickness: Charles was dating again.

“I’m cleaning it up!” Greg said peevishly, wiping at the counter. “And I’ll take it out--Mycroft?”

His voice was suddenly softer, and Mycroft shook himself, tucking the sudden surge of emotion away and smiling pleasantly. “Eleanor likes to collect things. She’ll hide them around the house to keep me from getting rid of them.”

“You let her keep some of her collections,” Greg said, frowning. “Don’t you?”

“She gave the bottle caps up for the eyeballs.”

“The eyeballs?” Greg repeated, and laughed. “Well. Wow. Eyeballs?”

“Mostly from toy or craft stores, or glass eyes from antique shops.” Mycroft sighed. “She keeps them in an aquarium. Would you like to see?”

“You know what?” Greg was laughing at him, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I would love to see your daughter’s aquarium full of eyeballs.”

“I suppose it isn’t the worst thing a Holmes has shown you,” Mycroft muttered.

*********


	4. Chapter 4

*********

“I know you don’t have Eleanor on Thursdays. Come to dinner with me of your own volition or I’ll have it made a Royal Decree.”

Mycroft looked up from his phone, his lips tight. “Who died and made you Queen?”

Harry’s benevolent expression didn’t change. “I won I Spy the other day; she owes me.”

Sherlock had moved on to Brazil, according to his latest message, and Mycroft was scrambling to find the logic behind that move, while dealing with the information yielded by his sojourn in Tunisia and the subsequent personnel replacements. He didn’t have time to go to dinner. And while he didn’t have Eleanor tonight, he would have her this weekend, and it would be the first time he would face Charles with the knowledge that he was dating.

Mycroft’s hands tightened before he could stop himself, and Harry frowned. “You’re experiencing an emotion. Tsk tsk, Mycroft.”

“Who is Charles dating?” he asked, allowing himself to cover his face with one hand.

“Ah.” Harry sat on the edge of Mycroft’s desk. “Well. I thought you knew, otherwise I would have spent some time coming up with clever jokes--”

“Harry.” Mycroft tried to keep his voice level and somewhat dispassionate, though he failed miserably.

“Eric Clarke. A violinist with the London Symphony, twenty-eight years old.” Harry paused, and then added, “When you’re ready, I have more than a few comments to make on his general appearance.”

“All cribbed from Rebecca?” Mycroft asked dryly.

“My wife has a talent for descriptive prose,” Harry said airily, and then softened again. “Mycroft. Come to dinner with us. It’s been a long time.”

“I have a lot of work--”

“And even more excuses, yes, I know. How long have we been friends?” Harry smiled at him. “I won’t let you get out of it. Better to agree now and have a few hours to finish up some of these unnamed projects.”

He had a point. Mycroft looked up at the clock. “What time, then, and where shall we meet?”

“I’ll be back at here at six. Don’t look at me like that,” Harry warned, standing up and brushing his hands off with some satisfaction. “I’m not giving you the chance to sneak home and claim a headache. Six o’clock, here, or to the Tower you go.”

Mycroft made a face at him. “Better than the Thames.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

*********

“Papa!” Eleanor cheered, jumping out of Charles’ car and running up the short walkway. Mycroft caught her and lifted her into a hug; if he could just hide his face in her hair for a moment, he would be able to compose himself. 

“Mycroft, hello,” Charles said, and he managed a smile, knowing that Charles wouldn’t see through it. He’d never done so in the past, after all. “We, ah, did the costume fitting for the recital last night, and Eleanor wanted to bring it to show you--”

“I’m a fairy!” Eleanor shouted, right in his ear, and Mycroft winced. “I have wings and a wand and sparkles!”

“The sparkles are everywhere,” Charles added, and handed off Eleanor’s costume bag. He smiled, his eyes brightening as they met Mycroft’s. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, forcing himself to be easy and polite. He could see, now, clear as day, the signs that Charles was seeing someone who was more important than a simple one-night stand. Not that Charles ever did one-night stands. He’d always been too romantic for that.

“Papa, I’m hungry,” Eleanor said loudly, interrupting Mycroft’s reverie. 

They exchanged quick goodbyes and Mycroft let Eleanor down to ballet-skip into the house, chattering again about her wings and wand and sparkles, swallowing down the urge to ask her about her daddy’s new friend. It was completely against everything he wanted to be as a father to ask her about him. 

It didn’t change the horrible gnawing feeling in his chest, though.

“Papa, come on!” Eleanor demanded, and he looked up at where she stood on the landing, halfway up the stairs.

“I thought you were hungry.”

Her eyes grew wide and she put her hands on her hips. “I am! So hurry up and help me with my costume!”

“Oh, no,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “You’re not supposed to wear this when eating. I know the rules, darling.”

Eleanor’s lips tightened. “How can I have dinner in this?” she demanded, hands down and out to indicate her perfectly acceptable white shirt and frilled pink skirt.

“Eleanor, behave,” Mycroft warned, and winced as Eleanor swallowed hard, her eyes starting to fill with tears. “Eleanor Ashbury-Holmes--”

“Fine!” she screamed, and stamped her foot. “I won’t wear it! I’ll go to my room and die!”

Mycroft held perfectly still as she ran up the rest of the stairs, until he heard her door slam open and shut. “Well,” he said into the silence, and looked down at the costume bag. It must have been a very sparkly outfit.

Then he went into the kitchen and put together a quick plate of vegetables, hummus, crackers, and a few thin slices of chicken breast to bring up with him into Eleanor’s room. He grabbed a bottled water on the way.

Eleanor was curled into a lump in the middle of her bed, her boots lying on the floor at the far wall. She’d thrown them, Mycroft surmised, and moved to sit on the edge of her bed.

“I feel like crumpled,” Eleanor said, her voice soft and tired. She was staring at the little white lamp on her nightstand, her cheeks streaked with tears.

“Oh yes?” Mycroft put the plate and bottle on the nightstand on his side of the bed, and stroked her hair back from her forehead. “Why’s that, darling?”

“I miss Uncle Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed out, and then he shifted to lay down on the bed, gathering Eleanor into his arms and holding her tight. She squirmed around until her face was pressed to his chest and cried, her tiny body shaking with the force of it.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and Mycroft sighed again, shifting to bring Eleanor closer while fishing the phone out. A text from Greg. “Dinner? Made pizza.”

“Is that Daddy?” Eleanor asked, sniffing and wiping her nose on his tie.

“It’s Greg--Greg Lestrade, do you remember him?” Mycroft asked, smiling down at her blotchy little face. “He says he’s cooked pizza for dinner, and wonders if we’d like to try it.”

“He made it?” Eleanor sat up, wiping her nose again on her sleeve. “Oh, like from Tesco. He just cooked it.”

“I can ask,” Mycroft said, and settled onto his back to type. Eleanor lay next to him, snuggling so that her shoulder was tight to his. “Did you buy it at a shop or make it from scratch?” he read aloud before sending it.

“What is scratch?” Eleanor asked.

“It means you make a recipe from basic ingredients, like when we made that apple pie and had to cut up all the apples.”

“You can make a pizza like that?” Eleanor sounded awed.

“Well, how did you think they were made?” Mycroft tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, but Eleanor was glaring at him anyway.

“In factories,” she snapped, and jumped when the phone vibrated again.

“Scratch. Smells better than looks.” Mycroft chuckled, and laughed again when Eleanor lay her head on his chest to feel it jump up and down. 

“Well, darling, he says he made it from scratch, and it smells good even it doesn’t look very pretty. Should we take a chance?”

“Yes,” Eleanor said loudly, and sat up again. “But.”

“You may change into something else, but not your costume,” Mycroft said, and held up his hand when she started to argue. “Eleanor. You may not wear your costume when eating. Choose something else, and then afterward I will help you get into your costume and you can show us your dance. Agreed?”

Eleanor stared at him for a long moment, chewing on her lip, but finally nodded. Most of her sorrow and sulk had been worn away by the tears and promise of a non-factory pizza. Mycroft hoped it would last through the disappointment the pizza was likely to be.

“Eleanor & I would be happy to host. Should I order another pizza now just in case?” he texted back, watching as Eleanor hopped up and started going through her closet with loud sighs of disgust and covert glances back at her papa.

Greg’s reply was swift. “Yes wont be responsible for poisoning child. Binning pizza.”

“No she wants to see it” Mycroft texted back hurriedly. He added, after the initial text, “Don’t disappoint my daughter.”

“Papa, why are you laughing?” Eleanor demanded. Mycroft looked to her to see that she was holding her purple velvet dress, the one she’d been far too small for last Christmas. He wondered if Greg would appreciate that his visit was on par, sartorially speaking, with Christmas Eve.

“Greg has an amusing way of texting,” he explained, and smiled sweetly at Eleanor’s glower.

Just then, the phone vibrated with Greg’s last text: “Wouldnt dare. 20 min.”

*********


	5. Chapter 5

*********

Eleanor’s mouth was hanging open. “It looks like a nadustrial accident.”

“An industrial accident,” Mycroft corrected, enunciating the separate words carefully, “and please mind your manners.”

“No, she’s right,” Greg said, and sighed deeply. Eleanor looked up at him with some concern and he winked at her, adding, “But your papa’s so polite, I figured he’d try it anyway, and then at least I’d get a laugh.”

“That’s wicked,” Eleanor said in solemn awe, and neither Greg nor Mycroft could keep from laughing.

The pizza was oddly-shaped, the doughy base thicker in some areas and therefore not quite cooked. Greg had put a variety of toppings on it before cooking, and most had curled up into crunchy little bits of once-vegetables. 

Mycroft had never in his life been polite enough to try something like that.

“You did order something, right?” Greg asked, closing the cake box he’d repurposed as a pizza box. 

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Mycroft said, herding Greg toward the bin. “Eleanor, please set the table.”

“But Papa--” Eleanor started, but Greg’s surprised protest overrode hers easily.

“Mycroft, it’s pizza!”

“And this is not a representative democracy,” Mycroft said crisply. “I am a tyrant, as you both well know. We will sit at the table.”

Greg and Eleanor exchanged sulky glances. Possibly this was an alliance he should nip in the bud; Eleanor was rebellious enough without a compatriot. However...

“Let me help you,” Greg offered, and Eleanor’s face lit up. He had an uncanny ability to cheer Sherlock up as well, Mycroft thought, and allowed himself to turn away, to keep that rather soft reflection to himself.

Eleanor liked to climb up to the counters herself, so Greg accepted the plates and glasses she handed down, carefully stacking them for transport to the dining room. Mycroft excused himself after a moment to wait for the pizza, due to a sudden reluctance to hinder what must be a bonding experience for the two.

Charles’ boyfriend wouldn’t have such an understanding with Eleanor, he was sure, and shied away from examining that thought.

“Pizza!” Eleanor cheered when Mycroft returned from the foyer, bearing a pizza of the edible sort.

Greg, sipping at his wine, winked at Mycroft and gestured to the lit candles. “Posh enough for you?”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Silverware?”

“With pizza?”

“I set out napkins,” Eleanor said loudly. “Papa, can we eat now?”

Eleanor had placed herself at the head of the table, with Mycroft to her right and Greg to her left. She distributed the slices of pizza herself, with a great importance.

If only Sherlock were there to complete the picture.

“You can’t make faces; you ordered the pizza,” Greg said, and Mycroft looked up quickly, with a sharp smile.

“I didn’t choose the wine, though.”

Greg shrugged, taking a healthy swallow from his glass. “It was the most expensive one I could find in the cabinet.”

Mycroft burst into laughter, and Eleanor glared at him over her pizza. “I don’t see why that’s funny.”

“It’s not particularly,” Mycroft said, electing to turn his attention to his food.

“Adult humour is strange,” Greg added. “And I thought it was very funny.”

Mycroft schooled his expression to bland politeness. “It’s a good thing you’re around to reassure yourself of it, then.”

Greg’s eyes opened wide in mock offense, but before he could parry that return Eleanor sat up tall and declared, “No more adult humour at the table! Some of us are children, thank you very much!”

*********

It was almost three quarters of an hour after Eleanor’s bedtime before Mycroft could get her into bed, still sporting a healthy amount of sparkles on her cheeks and in her hair. She was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and Mycroft took only a moment to tuck her in, not daring to kiss her lest the glitter find its way into his mouth.

Greg was in the sitting room, making faces at the local news broadcast when he returned. “Miss Ashbury-Holmes finally settled in?” he asked, smiling up at Mycroft. “No more toothaches, earaches, monsters, or existential dread?”

There were sparkles on his face and in his hair, as well; Eleanor had decided to have him act the Prince to her Faerie Princess, and had showered him with fake kisses. Greg had borne it with admirable fortitude.

“She found a comic version of Kafka’s Metamorphosis a year ago, and spent the entire summer telling me she couldn’t go to sleep or she’d wake up as a cockroach,” Mycroft recalled, taking a seat next to him. Greg handed him his wine glass, set aside when Mycroft, as the villain of the piece, had had to wrestle the Faerie Princess away to her room to get changed into her pyjamas. 

“She didn’t read to the end, did she?” Greg asked, his jokingly horrified expression becoming honest as he looked down and saw that his wine had become more sparkle than alcohol. “Ah, bo--bad luck.”

“She’s in bed, you can swear if you wish,” Mycroft said, laughing and taking the glass from him. “And no, I was spared that somehow. Do you want me to refresh this?”

Greg’s smile was glittery, but Mycroft didn’t comment. “Nah, I should probably let you unwind from a long evening of keeping me and Eleanor in line. Not that I’m apologising;” he added, when Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You escaped most of the glitter, after all.”

“Oh, I’ll no doubt wake up to it all over the house, and a costume to salvage from having been dragged over and under every bit of furniture that could be worked into a faerie princess narrative.” Mycroft sighed, swirling the wine left in Greg’s glass to watch the light catch on the glitter caught within. “It works its way into carpeting, you know, to resurface whenever you think you’ve finished cleaning.”

“I think it’s working its way into my pores,” Greg said, wiping ineffectually at his face.

They made their way to the door, Greg trying to shake glitter from his hair whenever Mycroft’s head was turned, to the effect that they were stifling their own laughter with cautious glances at the staircase. But Eleanor didn’t appear to protest being left out of the goodbyes, and as Greg was donning his coat, he nodded to the stairs and asked, “She’s doing all right?”

Mycroft had to remind himself that it was politeness that led him to ask, even as he felt a very belated and rather ridiculous defensiveness. “As well as she can, I’m sure.”

Greg nodded, keeping his eyes down and tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “That’s good.”

They stood in an awkward silence until Mycroft said quietly, “Thank you. For checking up on us.”

Greg started to protest, but Mycroft’s smile, small but real, stopped him. Instead, he shrugged and looked up and away again. “Well, it keeps me from thinking too much, and I know that you Holmeses, well. You think circles around the likes of me.”

He made for the door, then, and shared another smile before letting himself out. Mycroft, standing near the foot of the stairs, knew that he smiled in response, though he felt entirely removed from the action in a sudden, overwhelming rush of self-awareness.

“Daddy kisses his boyfriend goodbye,” a small, disapproving voice observed from upstairs, just to make matters worse.

*********


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to Sherlock2040 on Tumblr, who requested Mycroft and Eleanor and nail polish.

*********

Mycroft sat at the top of the stairs and held out his arms to Eleanor, who eyed him warily from her blanket huddle near the window. “Darling, come here. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I wanted to say goodbye, but.” Eleanor shrugged, her blanket falling forward over her face. She pushed it back with a quick, irritated gesture, one that was too fast to be effective, and growled when the blanket fell forward again. Ten seconds to tantrum.

“Eleanor, Greg is my friend,” Mycroft said slowly, as much to distract her as to explain.

“Boyfriend,” Eleanor corrected, finally shrugging the blanket back so that it no longer served as a hood. Her hair stood up wildly and Mycroft itched to smooth it down.

“Friend,” he repeated, and moved his arms to remind her that he was waiting for her to come closer. Eleanor looked away deliberately and rubbed at her nose. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

She turned back to him quickly with wide eyes. “But it’s okay, Papa! I like him.”

Mycroft smiled and let his arms down to rest. “While I’m glad of that, he is still not my boyfriend.”

“Why not?”

This was not a conversation he thought he’d be having for years yet. “Because... because we’re friends. Like Harry and I are friends.”

Eleanor looked skeptical. “Harry’s married, and he has kids.”

“Do you think that if he weren’t married, he should be my boyfriend?” Mycroft inquired, raising his eyebrow.

“No, because he likes polo and that’s boring,” Eleanor said loudly, standing up and rearranging her blanket around herself. “He never made me an accident pizza.”

“Is that why you like Greg?” Mycroft asked, unable to hide his smile.

Eleanor stood very tall. “Yes. And his hair is fluffy.” Then she walked as regally as one could while wrapped in a blanket to her room, while Mycroft almost choked on laughter.

If things were only as simple as that. Mycroft had had his realisation and knew himself to be, well, interested. Possibly even attracted. But that didn’t mean he wanted to date Greg; there were very many reasons why he didn’t want to, the first being that Greg was only making himself a part of Mycroft’s life to be sure that he wasn’t succumbing to grief after Sherlock’s apparent passing.

The thought sobered him, and he stood up with a sigh to follow Eleanor to her room. He found her curled up on the foot of her bed, fast asleep.

“My darling girl,” he whispered, and stood there looking at her for a moment, entranced by the curl hanging over her forehead, the spread of freckles over her cheeks. For a moment, the world was unbearably, achingly perfect, regardless of what any of the men in his life were doing.

He turned the duvet down and manhandled Eleanor up to her pillow, tucking her in and flicking on the turtle night light before leaving.

*********

Mycroft arranged to be away from any and all offices the first two days of Eleanor’s school holiday, and the Friday before their weekend together. Charles would have her Wednesday and Thursday, which she was not entirely sanguine about.

“We’ll have to go to the symphony,” she told Mycroft, tugging at her fringe, which hung in her eyes now. Mycroft tried to brush it away from her face, but Eleanor growled and hid her face in her hands. “Papa, you’re not listening to me!”

“Of course I’m listening to you,” Mycroft said, sitting back and catching the eye of their waitress. She smiled at him and started over. “You’ll have to go to the symphony with your Daddy. I don’t see how that’s such a punishment; you like the symphony.”

“Not when Eric is playing,” she muttered, tugging at her fringe again.

“Can I get you anything, Sir, Miss?” the waitress, Janie, asked, tucking a lock of long, lustrous black hair behind her ear. Mycroft noticed Eleanor staring at her hair with envy, and made a mental note to call Anthea, to see if she couldn’t get them into a salon this afternoon.

“More lemonade please?” Eleanor piped up, looking hopefully at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled and nodded once. “And a glass of water for me, please. Thank you.”

Having decided that Greg was Mycroft’s boyfriend, or would be very shortly, Eleanor had opened up with her opinions on her daddy’s boyfriend. They were uniformly negative, centering mostly on how Eric ignored her.

“We’ll have to go and watch him and bring flowers, and why does he get flowers? Why do I have to give flowers to a boy?” Eleanor demanded, holding her arms out, palms turned up. “And Daddy is going to make me get a new dress!”

“You love new dresses,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Not the ones Daddy picks out,” Eleanor spat. “He always gets scratchy ones!”

Mycroft sighed. It was true that taking Eleanor shopping was a full day affair, as there were very few fabrics that felt “right” on her skin. And she wouldn’t wear it if it wasn’t completely comfortable. Charles, who usually had the patience of a saint, would try every trick in the book to shorten shopping trips, because when Eleanor found an outfit that suited her sense of style but didn’t feel nice, she would, more often than not, throw a fit.

It sounded as if Charles was choosing dresses for her these days. That wouldn’t make the symphony any more bearable for a little girl who firmly believed all flowers belonged to her.

“Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow then, darling?” he offered, and smiled when her face lit up.

“Why not today?” she asked eagerly, not even noticing that Janie was setting her lemonade down in front of her.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said to her, and turned back to Eleanor. “I think we’re going to get your hair trimmed this afternoon.”

Eleanor puffed up with excitement, dancing in her seat. “Can we get nail polish, too? Please, Papa?” 

“Let me call Anthea,” he said, unable to keep from smiling.

*********

Anthea had ways that were mysterious even to Mycroft, and managed to get them an appointment that afternoon for Eleanor’s hair to be trimmed and styled, followed by a manicure for them both. Eleanor skipped along as they walked to the salon from the car, pleased with the sound of her low-heeled boots on the pavement.

Suddenly, she stopped and turned to Mycroft, her face grave. “Tommy in my class says gingers shouldn’t wear pink.”

Standing there, resplendent in her pink and purple long coat, Mycroft wished suddenly that she had a big brother to defend her in school. “I think you’ll find that gingers should wear whatever they like, and boys named Tommy would do better to keep their uninformed and frankly banal opinions to themselves.”

That made a big, satisfied smile spread over her face, and Eleanor took his hand and continued skipping up to the salon.

Teresa, Eleanor’s favourite stylist, met them at the door. “Hello, my Holmeses! Long time, no see!”

“Hi,” Eleanor said shyly, leaning on Mycroft and staring with wide eyes at Teresa’s hair, which was streaked with blue today. 

Teresa grinned back at her. “Come along and sit in my spinny chair. Your flequillos are much too long.”

She held out her hand snappily and Eleanor took it, looking up at Mycroft with wide, laughing eyes.

A short half an hour later, in which Mycroft’s hair received some attention as well, Eleanor bounced back into view, her messy red curls gathered into a springy mess of ringlets atop her head, bouncing with every step she took and distracting her enough that she nearly walked into a chair.

“Papa, look!” she cried out, pointing at her head. “There’s a purple one!”

Sure enough, one tight set of ringlets was a bright, pinkish sort of purple. Mycroft lifted his eyebrow at Teresa, who hastened to add, “It’s washout colour.”

“It’s lovely,” Mycroft told Eleanor, though he allowed himself a slightly severe look at Teresa. She made an apologetic grimace and gestured to her own blue streaks, and shrugged.

“Nails, Papa,” Eleanor reminded him, jumping up and down and trying to watch her ringlets bounce. “I want pale pink, with white ends, and sparkles shaped like the market flowers!”

The market flowers? “Ah, cherry blossoms,” Mycroft said aloud, remembering Eleanor’s fascination with the small pink blossoms.

“Yes! Come on!” Eleanor grabbed his hand and tugged.

Callie, a pretty young woman with bright green eyes, set about trying to find the perfect pale shade for Eleanor’s nails while Mycroft settled in for his manicure, only to find that Eleanor wanted to make sure the pink matched his skin tone, as well. “Eleanor, I will not be wearing nail polish.”

“But you have to,” Eleanor said, surprised. When Mycroft stared at her, she rolled her eyes in exasperation and added, “You have to look pretty for your BOYFRIEND.”

“Keep this up, young lady, and your daddy will be the one buying you a dress for the symphony,” Mycroft said sternly.

*********


End file.
